Strength
by wrongnotes
Summary: The stairs were the only thing keeping Ed from his wife. The hands held him back, and he fought. Just how much fighting could he take, knowing he would lose someone again? It's impossible to be strong when you have no one to fight for. Edwin. Character Death.


They told him not to let the panic settle in, but Ed was far beyond that point.

It was those stairs, those damn stairs that kept him from seeing his wife. He was vaguely aware of the crushing grips pulling him back, the crack of a muscle and a leg too weak to stand upon.

He still fought.

The doctors were frantic, he could tell by their footsteps. It was either the baby or his wife that was dying. It could've been both, for all he knew.

" _Let me see her!"_ He struggled again, heaving with breaths that refused to enter his lungs faster than they exited.

He could hear Al's protests behind his left ear, calmly telling him to leave the doctors to their work. Bullshit. He'd faced enough doctors in his lifetime to know not to trust them. They did what was necessary, at the bare minimum, and nothing beyond that point.

Ed didn't care if he was being senseless. Frankly, he'd have ripped away from Al a long time ago if he wasn't his brother; if he wasn't suffering too. Al had always been stronger than he was, and could keep a level head no matter the situation. Some part of him understood his words, yet another gnashed and tore at the bounds that kept him in the dark.

A large crash on the second floor brought him back to his senses, and again, he fought.

" _Please… please!"_ His throat grew raw from the strain; the pain encouraging him further.

This was his baby as much as hers, and he deserved to see its last breath. There was nothing he yearned for more than a warm hand to hold, to offer the least he could in whatever hellish situation was occurring above him.

He fought again.

The hands scattering along his limbs grew, not unlike the horrid tendrils from the Gate. Something was wrong.

The chaos had ceased. The shouts and pounding of feet had left a hollow echo, and nothing could be heard beside his quiet gasps for air.

One of them was dead, and the urge to fight left him.

Ed sunk to the ground, escaping the multitude of fingers laced around his torso. They let him be for a number of minutes, the absent creak of the floorboards doing nothing to soothe him.

He was tired of loss. Tired of losing what he couldn't gain back.

He was tired of fighting.

"Let me see her," he spoke again, a muted tone rather than one of ferocity.

There was no protest. The hands lifted him again, and he couldn't bother to specify whose were whose. They were gentle, contrary to those that left him littered in faint bruises.

The stairs he had hoped to climb with fortitude were now a steep ascent into an image of lost hope. Every step was agony.

The doctors refused to make eye contact, stepping back against the walls and bowing their heads. They had failed, and were vastly aware of the fact.

Bedsheets were stained red, the crimson splatter covering more than the white they had once been.

He approached the body, limbs moving against every force within him yet refusing to halt. Her hand was cold and limp. It felt exactly as his own mother's had, years ago. Ed had never forgotten the chill it sent through him, and the one he now received felt even more haunting than the last.

Winry's hand, one he had hoped to grip through her struggle, to soothe and stroke, was now lifeless. Her face was peaceful, closed eyes bringing an illusion of slumber, had it not been for the blood.

He brushed the hair off her forehead, running his thumb across her eyelashes, then her cheeks, then her lips. The exhale that left his reminded him he had been holding his breath, and he quickly forced in another.

The face he had looked upon so fondly, the body he had cherished; he would never be able to do so again. The woman he loved, gone in a matter of minutes.

His choked cry was the first sound to permeate the room, reminding him of his own presence. Ed let his head sag as teardrops fell onto her face, making it look as if Winry were the one weeping. His stomach and chest clenched with pain, and he felt as though he had died alongside her.

The time they had spent together, _fully_ together, had been far too short. He couldn't remember the last time he had told her he loved her. He would give anything to be able to tell her again.

A hushed coo reminded him that he wasn't alone. Their baby. The one who had caused so much pain, yet brought so much life along with it. The one Winry had given her last breath for.

A doctor with a solemn expression hesitantly approached, and Ed turned to meet him. The baby was a girl, it seemed, and was wrapped so tightly in a bundle of blankets that he could barely make out her face.

"Hey baby girl," he whispered, taking the bundle and rocking it slowly. She had Winry's eyes, he noted. The last remnant of the woman he loved, preserved in the daughter they had both come to cherish.

Ed pulled the bundle to his chest and hugged, relishing in every heartbeat that thumped against his own.

Sparing another glance at his wife, he closed his eyes and sucked in another breath.

Ed held his daughter tighter, and he didn't let go.


End file.
